Addressing a large book festival audience once, I devoted a few choice words to my pet hate of that time, the doctor and TV presenter Robert Winston. This man was a fertility scientist, not an expert on child development, I suggested. He should focus on what he does best – fertilising women (arf, arf) – rather than making programmes on childcare.
As always at the end of these events, it was impossible to gauge how I had gone down. As I peered into the darkness of the auditorium, I had no idea whether the audience had fallen asleep, were worrying if they had set the video to record Strictly Come Dancing, or fallen in love with me and all wanted to have my babies. The convenor asked anyone who had something to ask to state their name and keep the question short. The first was called. “Robert Winston”, said the voice.